Freaks
by Myth Queen
Summary: While is Sherlock in the hospital with doctors trying to get a bullet out of his head, Sally Donovon decides that she misses the freak when his big brother takes over the case. Rating is for the initial discription of Sherlock's injury
1. The Call

Sergeant Sally Donovan was in control. Detective Inspector Lestaude had gone on holiday for two weeks. And for those two glorious weeks, Sally was in charge. She handed out cases, or took them if she fancied them, and a certain freak was banned from Scotland Yard. She even got out of her crowded workspace and was able to set up shop in Lestrade's office. Ah, it was bliss. Not to worry. Not to have to take orders. Not to have to deal with Sherlock Holmes.

Sally winced as she thought the name, and scolded herself. _ I promised myself not to think about that freak,_ she reminded her own brain, _except to enjoy his lack of presence!_

Then came the call. Weeks later, Sally would think of that call, and have to go take a hot bubble bath while watching the old soaps that she had a secret love for while eating a box of chocolates to calm herself down. _That Call_, she referred to it with a shudder. _That Call._

Really, it was a day when she should have been at her desk, or rather at Lestrade's desk, finishing reports and ordering rookies to bring her coffee. But she hadn't felt like being cooped up indoors and had instead spent a leisurely day patrolling London's streets, keeping the garbage criminals in line. Not normally what sergeants from Scotland Yard did, but no-one questioned her orders. She was in charge.

"There's been reports of gunfire in an alley," said the call.

"I'm on it," Sally replied.

And that was how she ended up staring down at a body that had been put there by Sherlock Holmes. She always knew it would happen. She just had never dreamt that the body would actually _be_ Sherlock Holmes.

A quick survey of the scene told Sally that the perpetrator was nowhere in the area. She dropped to her knees beside Sherlock's still body. He was face-down, blood pooling beneath him, staining the dark fabric of his trench coat. He didn't appear to be breathing. Sally quickly reached to take his pulse, not knowing what to expect, or feel, or even what she hoped to find. And she didn't know if it was relief or annoyance that flooded her when her fingers felt a weak but steady beat in his neck.

Sherlock groaned softly. He was conscious! Sally suddenly didn't know what to do. She had been in this situation hundreds of times before- gunshot victims lying near-death. The first thing she needed to do was call an ambulance, which she did. But then- what? Normally she would have held the victim's hand, let them know that they weren't alone, and talk soothingly while trying to staunch the flow of blood.

But this was Sherlock, and she wondered if he'd even appreciate any of it.

"I hope you appreciate this, freak," she muttered as she gingerly rolled him onto his back. There was a ragged tear in his shirt. He was completely soaked in blood. Knife wound, from the look of it. But that wasn't the worse of it. Sally's heart jumped to her throat. His head was slick with blood; it pooled in his ear as it streamed from a tiny hole in his skull. A gunshot to the head. Where was the ambulance?

"Sherlock," Sally said, loudly as his eyes flickered under their lids. Sally heard a trace of panic in her own voice and viciously stomped on it. She never let emotions get the best of her in the field. Caring about the men and women who lay dying wasn't going to save them. Clear thinking might. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

She tore off her own jacket and wadded it up to press against the knife wound on Sherlock's chest, but what about his head? Sally squashed the thought that the man was already dead, even as he groaned and his eyes flicked open. They were glazed and unseeing, but somehow they managed to lock on Sally's face. Sherlock wet his lips, trying to speak.

"Everything's going to be fine, Sherlock," Sally reassured him, and this time her voice was calm and in control. "There's an ambulance on its way, so I need you to hold on. Can you do that?"

Sherlock's lips moved, but Sally couldn't hear what he said. She leaned in closer, her dark brown eyes uncharacteristically worried for the man she hated most in the world.

"Who shot you, Sherlock?" she asked him, battling the concern by replacing it with the fact that there was a killer loose on her streets. A killer she had to stop. "Did you see his face?"

Sherlock's lips moved again. Sally leaned in closer, so that her ear was almost touching his mouth before she finally heard what he was saying.

"Freak," he whispered.

And then those pale grey eyes rolled up into the back of his head and his whole body went limp.

All right, so I thought I'd try something different by actually posting my updating schedule for the entire fic, so here goes:

Chapter 1 (this one!) – Oct 7

Chapter 2 – Oct 14

Chapter 3 – Oct 21

Chapter 4 – Oct 28

Chapter 5 – Nov 4

Chapter 6 – Nov 11

Chapter 7 – Nov 18

Chapter 8 – Nov 25 (end)

Please be aware that this is subject to small variations, but I will attempt to stick to it as closely as I can!


	2. The Brother Arrives

Sally's forensic team arrived just after the ambulance took Sherlock Holmes away. The sergeant watched the vehicle drive away with a knot in her stomach. He was alive, but she knew, deep down, that he wouldn't last long. Sally had seen wounds less serious than that take down a person. A knife wound to his chest, a bullet lodged in his head. It took four wet-wipes to get his blood off her hands. Her jacket was ruined.

An hour after going over the scene, Sally left the team to it and headed back to headquarters with all the pictures she thought she needed. These she printed off her own computer and taped to the walls of her work space, in Lestrade's office, to go over in case she missed something.

"Sergeant Donavon?" A new recruit nervously poked his head into the office.

Sally hid her smile behind a coffee mug as she stared at the recruit. She remembered being just like him. Nervous, unsure, running errands, bringing coffee, taking orders. Now it was her giving the orders. For two weeks, and she wasn't going to let Sherlock Holmes ruin that by getting himself shot up. She set her mug down, any trace of a smile gone from her lips.

"What is it?"

"There's someone insisting on seeing you. It's about the Holmes shooting?" the recruit managed to turn a simple statement into a question.

"Who is it?"

"A man named John Watson."

Sally sighed. Of course. Watson. Suddenly Sally felt a little nervous herself. Dealing with friends of the victims was the hardest part. Briefly it crossed her mind that maybe the doctor had finally had enough and had shot Sherlock himself... but that thought was quickly dismissed. No way, no how, would John Watson shoot his friend.

"I'll go see him," Sally said, putting her coffee on her desk. She headed to the lobby, where John Watson paced the floors, looking angry and anxious.

"Dr. Watson," Sally greeted.

"What happened?" John said without returning the greeting. "I just came from the hospital and- What happened?"

"We're still trying to figure that out," Sally folded her arms and stood absolutely still in contrast to Watson's frantic pacing. In a more gentle tone, she asked, "How is he?"

Watson stopped pacing. "There's a bullet lodged in his brain. He's in surgery, but whether or not they can remove it without killing him is-"

Sally let her arms drop to her sides as Watson cut himself off. No use in appearing confrontational. "Is there anything that you can tell us that might help?"

"We were working on a case. Sherlock thought that a cat burglar was really an international jewel thief-"

Sally interrupted with a frown. "Aren't cat burglars usually thieves?"

Watson shook his head, snorting softly in laughter. "No, a cat burglar. Someone who steals cats."

"Why would anybody want to steal cats?" Sally asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Apparently it's their signature... steal the cat and the owners are so distraught that they don't miss the missing jewels or something like that." Watson shrugged. "About three hours ago he went out to get milk, and then I got a text from him telling me that he solved the case."

"Did he tell you how?"

Watson shook his head.

Sally hesitated for a moment. "All right. Can you come take a look at the crime scene photos? Maybe there will be something that you see that connects the shooting to your case. He still had his wallet and money, so it wasn't a robbery."

"Right, sure," Watson said, nodding. They started walking, when suddenly Watson stopped.

"Why you?" he asked.

"What?"

"Why are you taking this case?" Watson demanded. "You hate Sherlock, why are you the one who is handling this case?"

Sally was at a loss for words, and it made her angry. Not knowing what to say made her feel weak. It made her feel like a child again. She was silent for only a second. "I took the case because it's a case. Whether Sherlock Holmes, or somebody that I don't know, or my best friend, it doesn't make a difference. I took this case because I am a sergeant of Scotland Yard and I will do everything in my power to find the madman who runs around shooting people!"

What she had planned to be an inspiring speech turned out to be not so much inspiring, or even a speech, as a childish rant. Sally felt her face grow hot, and that made her even angrier than she was before. Turning on her heel, she fairly stalked to Lestrade's/her office and stopped dead in the doorway.

There was a man in her office, leaning on her desk, his gaze fixed on her crime scene photos. A tall man in an expensive-looking pinstriped black suit, with neatly brushed light-brown hair, and pale blue eyes. A man who had an umbrella leaning against his leg, even though it hadn't rained for two days. The man had his hands pressed together, held just before his lips, as he stared at the photos.

"Ah, John. Good. I need you bring me everything the Sherlock was working on in the past forty-eight hours," the man said before Sally could get over her shock enough to start yelling at him. "The littlest things may be extremely important, so do try to be thorough."

Sally glanced at Watson, and was surprised to see that not only was the doctor not surprised, he actually looked relieved. He nodded.

"Right. Of course. Do you want me to bring them here?"

"Where else?"

"Right," Watson breathed out a sigh, and hesitated a moment. "Have you visited him?"

The tall man's expression didn't change. His eyes were locked on the photos, and seemed to be so concentrated that it was almost a surprise to Sally that he was aware of anything going on around him.

"Seeing as he is in surgery, John, there is no point."

Watson opened his mouth, but by this time Sally had enough. This was her office (well, for two weeks it was), for Pete's sake, and her two weeks of control!

"And who are you?" she demanded of the man leaning against her desk. "How did you even get in here?"

"Ah, yes. Sergeant Donavon." The man finally looked away from the photos and gave her a slight nod. "Forgive my rudeness. I am Mycroft Holmes. John, if you would hurry, I would really like to find out who attacked my brother before they have a chance to try again."

Watson nodded once, turned on his heel, and left the way he and Sally had come.

Sally, in the meantime was staring at Mycroft Holmes as if he was sprouting another head. Which would have been preferable to the truth that was very slow to register in Sally's mind. Sherlock Holmes had a brother. Her jaw hung slack and she blinked more times than she would have liked.

"The freak has a brother?" she gasped aloud. Holmes stared at her unblinking. It was somehow... intimidating. Sally suddenly remembered how to close her mouth. She swallowed. "I didn't know Sherlock Holmes had any family."

"And no doubt that was done on purpose."

Sally was silent for a moment as Holmes turned back to the photos.

"Look, you really can't be in here. This is my case, see-"

"They say that the first forty-eight hours after a crime is critical so any evidence does not get destroyed. They're wrong. In cases involving my brother, the forty-eight hours _before_ the crime is critical to solving the case and I very much doubt you could solve it with all the time in the world. So make yourself useful and fetch me a tea. Earl Grey, milk and no sugar."

Sally saw red. She hadn't been ordered to get a drink for years, and now some pinstriped suit was waltzing into her case and telling her to get him tea? No way, no how! "I don't know what you do or what that has to do with anything, Holmes," she burst out, folding her arms. "But this is my case, and you have no authority here. Now I'm going to give you two choices; you can get out, or you can get dragged out in cuffs."

Mycroft Holmes turned to Sally Donavon and raised an eyebrow.


	3. Freak the Elder

"Milk, no sugar," Sally mimicked in a high-pitched, angry voice. The spoon clinked against the sides of the mug that she had found in the staff room ("A paper cup?" Freak the elder had said last time, and Sally had to fight down the rage). "Earl Grey tea. I almost miss Sherlock. Who does this guy think he is, ordering me around?"

Sally looked down at the tea, and a smile twisted her lips. She could still have her revenge. Contracting the muscles at the back of her throat, she built a ball of spit in her mouth and then dropped it in the mug. A few more stirs, and there was no trace of evidence in the steaming liquid. She smiled smugly, put the spoon in the sink, and picked up the mug.

Sherlock's brother was still standing in the same spot, his hands still pressed together against his lips, his gaze studying first one photo and then moving to another. Sally fought to keep the smile off her face as she presented the mug to him. He didn't move.

"Sergeant Donavon, I suggest you try once more. I have no desire to ingest your salvia."

"Wha-?" Sally started, and set the mug down. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then you should look for a new career."

Sally opened her mouth for a comeback that would have probably been a very bad idea, but suddenly the umbrella was in Holmes's hand, pointing to a photo of the blood that had been left by the hole in Sherlock's head.

Was he still alive?

Sally pushed the thought away.

"Those bins were moved. There's a sewer grate under them, and that's where the shooter hid the gun."

Sally looked at the photo, her eyes narrowing. "How do you know that?"

"This was not a planned attack, Sergeant. Our shooter panicked. Naturally, a panicked man – or woman – would want to get rid of their weapon. Now, in order to surprise my brother the shooter cannot be the usual idiot that you lot track down, and so they would know that police search any possible escape routes for said weapon. A panicked shooter would want to get rid of evidence immediately, a smart shooter would hide the gun at the scene itself."

Sally's jaw hung slack, and she stared at Holmes. "What?" she said.

Freak the elder rolled his eyes.

"How do you know about the sewer grid? And that the bins were moved?"

Holmes placed his umbrella back at his side and looked at the sergeant. His expression was one of such condensation and superiority, Sally wanted to pick up the mug of hot tea and splash it in his face. But that would not be professional, and if there was one thing Sally Donavon was, it was professional.

"Isn't it obvious? And throwing hot tea in my face would be a very grave mistake."

"I-" Sally started, but couldn't think of how to proceed. "You're more of a freak than your brother."

Holmes turned back to the photos. "Thank you."

"_Thank you_?"

"Obviously you refer to Sherlock as a freak because of his intelligence. Your referring to me as more of a freak means that you consider me even more intelligent, and so thank you. Now, if you could get me a proper cup of tea?"

"I don't call Sherlock a freak because he's intelligent, I call him a freak because he is a freak!" Sally shrieked. "He's a psychopath, and- and- you're a psychopath and-"

"The tea please, sergeant."

Sally marched over to the photo and yanked it down. She studied it. There was hardly a corner of the bins to be seen. How could Holmes know they had been moved? Unless... maybe he had moved them! Maybe Sherlock got shot by his own brother! That was it! It had to be. And Sally Donavon would figure it out, she would arrest him and then-

"I didn't shoot Sherlock."

"I didn't say you did," Sally replied cautiously. Surely this was more evidence to his guilt?

"You were thinking it."

"Oh, so you're a mind reader now?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You think on your face."

"I think on my face?"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Sally whirled around to see Watson standing in the door of her office. She felt her face grow hot. It was bad enough that she couldn't keep her professionalism intact when interacting with Holmes, but to have it witnessed! At least none of her team had viewed her embarrassing outburst. If this got back to Lestrade, she would never be left in charge again.

"I brought everything that I could think of that Sherlock used, like you asked," Watson told Holmes, setting a large duffel bag on Sally's desk. Sally couldn't help but notice that Watson's face looked rather drawn. Worry lined his forehead and tightened the corners of his mouth.

Sally put her hand on his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting manner. Her anger at Holmes was dwindling somewhat in the light of how worried Sherlock's friend clearly was. Her interest was piqued by the duffel bag. What sort of things did Sherlock use when he was investigating? She knew he kept human eyes in the microwave, and had an extensive array of impressive-looking science equipment, but-

"Is that a fork?" she asked incredulously as Watson opened the duffel bag.

Holmes turned to view the contents.

"Yeah, it's a fork," Watson snapped at Sally. "Sherlock once solved a case from nothing but a needle. I tried to be as thorough as possible. Anyway, he didn't use that fork to eat or anything, he had some experiment with it... and the light socket."

"Thank you, John," Holmes interrupted, gazing at the junk Watson had brought. His expression was superbly unimpressed for a man whose brother was possibly dead in the hospital-

_Stop it_, Sally told herself. _Just stop it._

She quickly tried to convince herself it was because Mycroft Holmes was her number one suspect.

"This is most enlightening," Holmes murmured, inspecting the fork carefully. "Sergeant Donavon, are you going to order your people to get that gun or not?"

Sally glared.

"The gun? You've found the gun?" Watson said, looking from Holmes to Sally.

"In the sewer grid under the bins. They were moved there to hide it."

Reluctantly, Sally handed Watson the photo. He frowned at it, his eyes searching the area carefully. Eventually he looked up, his light blue eyes confused. Sally was glad she wasn't the only one. "How do you know? Are there scrape marks in the ground or something?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and pointed at another photo with his umbrella. Both Sally and Watson looked at it. It was just a dirty alleyway. She opened her mouth and was about to say just that, and to vocalise her beliefs that perhaps psychopaths liked to shoot their psychopath brothers when she stopped. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly she realised exactly why Holmes said that the bins had been moved.

"There's a clean patch. Well, cleaner," she murmured. She glanced at Watson and was happy to see him beginning to understand. They both turned back to Holmes.

"How could you see that from way back there?" Sally asked him, feeling, for the first time since the man arrived, amazed.

"Like you said, I'm a bigger 'freak' than Sherlock."

"You said that?" Watson sounded shocked. He looked at Sally as if she was the one who ran around with freaks solving (and possibly causing...? No, Watson was a doctor and was far too sweet for that) weird murders. Sally stared right back, confused by his reaction.

"Of course I did. I call Sherlock a freak all the time."

"Yeah, but-"

Holmes interrupted. "John, you should go to the hospital."

Watson turned to Holmes. "What? No, Molly and Mrs. Hudson are there. I want to help."

"Then help by going to the hospital and making sure that Sherlock stays safe. He surprised his attacker; they didn't check to make sure he was dead. By this time their panic will have cooled and they would have heard by now that he was taken to the hospital alive." Holmes looked at Watson, and his cool blue eyes were intense and the stoic expression on his face was just like an order. "Sherlock knows who attacked him, and if this is any indication as to what he's been up to, then he knows a lot more about them as well."

"You think they'll try to kill him again," Sally confirmed.

"Wait, don't you have people-" Watson started.

Holmes sighed. "This conversation is taking up precious time, John. Please, go to the hospital and make sure Sherlock stays safe. As for you, Sergeant Donavon, get that gun and fix me a _proper_ cup of tea."

Sally opened her mouth to argue, but decided against it. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket and grabbed the mug of spit-tea on the desk. She phoned her forensic team that was still on-scene as she headed towards the staff room. But as her mouth relayed the information about the gun and her hands made Holmes his _proper_ cup of tea, her mind was busy working.

Watson had mentioned _people_ for Sherlock's protection. _People_. Normally, Sally wasn't a crazy conspiracy theorist, but she had an inkling as to what that particular phrase meant. It made sense now, how Sherlock and now Holmes knew so much. They had _connections_ to the criminal world. That posh way of speaking, the expensive way of dressing, that curious condescending twinkle in their eyes... It all made sense now.

Author's Note: Thanks to everybody who has favourited, followed, viewed and reviewed! I am overwhelmed by all of your support!


	4. Bonding Moments?

He was still standing there. Other than to make a few remarks about Sally's talents in the tea-making department, he hadn't moved since he told her about the gun. If it wasn't for the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, Sally would have called the morgue. There was no humanly way for a man to stand so still; he was the exact opposite of his brother, who was like a whirlwind.

Sally preferred the whirlwind.

_Do I really miss the freak?_ she wondered_. Or is it just because Freak the elder is even worse?_

Sally had been busy organising teams to canvas the area, try to find witnesses, and in her spare time, she worked on her theories. Sherlock and his brother were both part of a well-connected crime ring, perhaps even the leaders. Now, Holmes had decided to get rid of his little brother in order to... why had he decided to kill his brother? Was Sherlock trying to take over the family business? And what did this all have to do with the fork that Holmes had placed on the desk beside him, claiming that nothing else that Watson had brought was useful.

"How can a fork be useful?" Sally ventured to ask one time she stopped by her temporary office to pick up her laptop. She winced at how curious she sounded. She had been going for condescending.

"A fork _and_ a light socket. Weren't you listening to Dr. Watson?"

"All right, a fork and a light socket. What's so important about that?"

"Sherlock was working on a case involving cat burglars and jewel thieves."

Sally felt like ripping out her hair, and that was a big deal because she spent hours every morning making it look just right. "So?"

Holmes sighed in a long-suffering way, and gave her the most condescending look she had ever had the misfortune of bearing. "Sergeant, if you are going to keep breaking my concentration with these ridiculous questions, it would be better if you took your computer out of here and worked on your little theory that I am a criminal mastermind." As he turned back to the photos, what could almost be described as a smile twitched his lips. "Sherlock would be very amused."

Sally didn't ask how he knew about her theory. She did, however, bristle at it being called 'little', as if she was a child. Nobody spoke that way to her anymore, not while she was in charge! She opened her mouth to say just that, but then swallowed it back down.

"Have you heard anything? About Sherlock?" she asked. She quickly told herself that it was because she knew from experience that even hardened criminals could show some of their weaknesses if... if... ah, who was she kidding? She was concerned about Sherlock, because even if he was a freak and a psychopath he was still human. Sort of.

"No."

"Aren't you worried about him?"

"Dr. Watson would inform us if anything happened."

Sally studied Holmes for a moment. If she tried really hard, then she could imagine worry lines at the creases of his eyes; she could imagine that perhaps his hands were pressed too tightly together; that the stoic line of his lips was more determined and perhaps even a little sad. If she tried really, really hard, Mycroft Holmes didn't seem to be made out of ice. He actually was concerned about his little brother.

"Is there anything else you want, Sergeant?"

"What happened to the knife?"

Holmes glanced at her.

"The knife. When I found him, I saw that he'd been cut by a knife. But there was only the gun in the sewer grid. Where did the knife go? If the shooter was panicked, why didn't he put the knife in with the gun? Unless..." Sally frowned, her own gaze shifting to the photos, although she had no idea what she was looking for. "Unless the person with the gun wasn't the same man who shot him?"

"Woman."

"What?"

"The shooter was a woman."

"How can you know that?"

Holmes sighed, and Sally instantly could no longer see any sort of sympathetic character about him. "Why is it that as soon as you stop being an idiot, you say something stupid?"

"I'm not a freak like you," Sally pointed out angrily. "Now come on. How do you know that the shooter was a woman? Do you have a description for us?" she added sarcastically. "Do you happen to know where she's staying?"

"She's Canadian. Mid-twenties, brunette. Staying at a hotel near Covent Garden. Fourth floor, and if you hadn't been distracting me I'd know exactly which hotel and the room by now." Holmes squinted for a moment, and then nodded. "Ah, yes. Of course. Four-oh-six."

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pressed a few buttons. Sally stared at him, trying to figure out _anything_ at all. At the moment she was having a hard time coming up with a reason why two plus two made four. Holmes ignored her, holding his mobile to his ear.

"The Waldorf Hilton, 406. Put a surveillance detail on her, but do not make contact," Holmes ordered into his phone. As soon as he was done, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and resumed the stance, looking as though he hadn't moved a muscle. Sally wondered how many orders he had given through his phone when she wasn't around.

She also wondered why he would tell somebody on the other end of his phone to put a surveillance detail on the suspect _she_ intended to arrest. "The Waldorf?"

"Stay away from the shooter, sergeant. She is not the one that we need to worry about."

Sally noticed the use of _we_. _We_, as if he was supposed to be on the case. _We_, as if he was actually sharing details with her. "This is my case, and I am going to arrest the manic who goes around shooting people."

"And if you do so, you will be putting Sherlock's life in even greater jeopardy."

"What?"

"The knife, Sergeant!" Holmes said, and his voice was strained. "What happened to the knife?"

"But the shooter-"

"Was not the attacker who tried to kill my brother."

Sally stood still for a moment, and despite all the reluctance to believe anything that Holmes said, decided to shove aside her own disbelief and at least pretend that she accepted what he was saying. "But if the shooter wasn't trying to kill Sherlock... then... the attacker with the knife was?"

"Yes."

"But then... why did she shoot Sherlock? If she had just come across the scene, why shoot the man being attacked... except she panicked." Sally's head hurt, trying to navigate all the twists and turns that Holmes had thrown into her case. So much for two weeks free of headaches. "She panicked, and... just shot the gun? Hitting Sherlock was an accident?"

"But it was enough to make the attacker run." Holmes nodded his approval at her deductions.

Sally promptly wrecked whatever progress she had made when she started speaking again. "She's a witness. She'll have seen what happened, and who had the knife. I need to bring her in for questioning-"

"She won't admit to anything. You hardly have proof to connect her to the shooting."

"But if you're so convinced that you're right, then you have proof."

"Yes, I do have proof. But you don't. She won't say anything to help the case. By identifying the attacker, she will have to admit to having fired an illegal weapon and quite possibly to murder, if my brother does not-" he cut off abruptly, blinking twice before returning to the silent stare.

Sally didn't quite know what to do. On one hand, she still thought that the Freak brothers were criminals and it was her job to take them down. On the other hand, if this Canadian had shot Sherlock, she needed to arrest her. On the other hand (Sally realised that she needed more hands for all this) if the shooter could somehow lead them to the person who really wanted Sherlock dead, then they needed to put her under discreet surveillance. Then again, this whole thing was messed up. What was a girl to do?

"Stay away from the shooter," Holmes told Sally once more, just as she had decided to put her own discreet surveillance team on the shooter, and look out for Holmes's team as well. "She is a highly trained and experienced burglar. Your people would do nothing more than spook her. They're too clumsy to remain discreet."

"That's getting really annoying," Sally muttered.

"Then stop having stupid ideas."

Sally opened her mouth, when Holmes's phone rang. She was surprised at how quickly it was in his hand and against his ear.

"What is it?" Sally watched at the man rolled his eyes and frowned. "I am far too busy to deal with such petty disturbances now." There was a pause. "Yes, well they won't ship the uranium for another three days and by then I shall be done with this."

Sally's jaw dropped. Her mind raced. Uranium? Sally latched onto the only logical thought in her head. Were Holmes brothers somehow connected with terrorists, too?

"Who said that? Fire him, he's an idiot. Of course they won't ship it for three days. Good-day."

Sally clutched her laptop to her chest and quickly hurried out the door before Holmes could engage her in any more of his insults and confuse her. Uranium! Her head spun as she sat at her desk. This case was getting even worse with every hour that went by. She set her computer down, and was going to open it up when she got a better idea. There wasn't much that she could do here, not with Holmes watching her every move – which she was convinced that he did, even though his gaze was glued to the photos on Lestrade's wall.

Sally grabbed a jacket she had gotten to replace the one that Sherlock had bled all over, and headed out. She was going to the hospital.


	5. At the Hospital

When Sally arrived at the tiny waiting room where Watson waited with Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper, whom Sally recognised from her trips to the morgue while investigating homicides, there was a surgeon talking with them. Both women had red eyes. The younger was leaning against Watson, and he had his arm comfortingly around her. Mrs. Hudson, by contrast, was clutching the sleeve of the surgeon who was speaking with them.

Sally's heart jumped to her throat as immediately her mind told her that Sherlock Holmes was dead. Her steps slowed and she blinked rapidly. It should be a relief, especially since she had decided that him and his brother were the ringleaders of an international terrorist cell that wanted to overthrow the world as she knew it.

But somehow, thinking that she would never again hear Sherlock's condescending voice made her sad. After all, how was she supposed to relieve stress if she couldn't imagine his face on the targets at the firing range?

Sally swallowed hard, and walked up to Watson and the two women as the surgeon left. It took a moment for them to notice her. Mrs Hudson had sat down, clutching a handkerchief to her face. Watson looked incredibly tired. His shoulders slumped and there were bags under his eyes. He nodded at Sally to acknowledge her presence.

"What's happened?" she asked.

"He's out of surgery. They were able to remove the bullet."

"Then he's not dead?" Sally blurted out, and was instantly chagrinned at how it sounded. "Sorry. I just- I thought, when I saw the surgeon- sorry."

"He's not out of the woods yet," Watson told her, ignoring her ill-timed question. "We still won't know for a while yet what the lasting effects of the damage will be."

Sally knew that asking if he was still going to be a freak wasn't the best line of questioning. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Watson nodded. Sally walked out of the waiting room and found a secluded area of the corridor. She glanced around to make certain that there was nobody around, and then began speaking at a low whisper. "Look, I overheard Sherlock's brother on the phone. He was talking about uranium shipments. I know that you're a good man. Do you know-"

She was interrupted by the soft ding of a phone alert. Watson pulled out his mobile, looked at it for a moment, and glanced back up at her. "He wants you to get back to working on the case instead of wasting everybody's time on your criminal theories."

Sally stared. "Is he following me now?" she hissed, and then her phone vibrated in her pocket.

_You think on your face,_ the text she received said. _I am not following you._

And seconds later, _My tea is cold._

Sally threw her phone onto the floor, wishing that she could scream with frustration. She looked up at Watson, but he was frowning at a new message he had received.

"His tea is cold," Sally told the doctor, unable to contain her fury. "I'm supposed to be in charge, and his tea is cold! I'd like to shoot him in the head! I miss Sherlock. I never thought that I would say that, but I do! I wish that Sherlock was all better so that he could go back to being a thorn in my side, instead of this great big spear that is his brother!"

Watson wasn't listening. He turned and walked away, holding his phone to his ear. "He's out of surgery," he said after a second, and Sally was reminded how quickly Holmes had answered his phone before. "Still unconscious." A pause, and when Watson answered, his voice was soft, comforting. "I don't know, but the bullet didn't actually penetrate the brain material. He's very lucky.

"I just got a text message from Sherlock's phone," the doctor continued, and suddenly his voice was back in control, clipped, like a military man delivering a message to a superior officer.

"But I found his phone," Sally protested, following after, even though she knew that the conversation wasn't directed at her. "I found it at the scene."

"Delayed message," Watson explained to her as it was explained to him. "Yeah, it says "Northumberland." That's it. What does it mean? What? Hello?"

Watson lowered his mobile and switched it off, for a moment standing and frowning. Sally watched him, waiting. Her stomach was twisting in knots. Eventually, Watson looked up at her. "He wants you to go back to the office immediately."

"For his tea?" Sally asked sarcastically, but then she remembered how he had looked at her, one eyebrow raised, and she shuddered. There was something unhuman about the Holmes brother. Maybe they were aliens as well as criminal mastermind terrorists.

Sally cradled her head in her hands. She needed a vacation. With a sigh, she turned and scooped up her phone before leaving the hospital, forgetting why she had come in the first place.


	6. Unexpected Grief

Two hours and four cups of tea later (too cold, not enough milk, spitting in it didn't work last time why would you try it again, finally!, in that order) Sally Donavon was sitting at her desk, laptop open in front of her, pretending to work. In reality she was furiously typing out a memo to herself about how much she hated freaks, which made sure not to accidently save.

In Lestrade's office, Holmes was still standing there, doing what he had been doing since he arrived. Occasionally he received a phone call; occasionally he made one. Sally didn't really care. She would have tried to help with the case, but she could not deal with Holmes, not even to find maniac killers loose on the streets of London.

_I miss Sherlock,_ she typed, and quickly deleted it.

Sighing, Sally rested her head in her hands. She was still convinced that the Homes brothers were terrorist criminals or something of the like, but she didn't really know what she could do about it. Without proof, she'd just sound like a crazy freak herself!

Her mobile buzzed. Snatching it up, Sally saw that the number was blocked. Cautiously, she held the mobile to her ear, as if it was a bomb or something nefarious. "Hello?"

"Why haven't I received a ballistics report?"

Sally dropped her phone and looked over to Lestrade's office. Holmes had his phone in his hand. Sally couldn't believe it. She sprang from her desk and marched into the office, shaking her head.

"I'm just outside. You can't take two steps to talk to me?" she demanded, after slamming the door of the office shut so nobody would hear her childish rant. "You are the laziest man I have even met, including my dad! You're worse than that man on the telly-"

"People are staring, sergeant."

Sally cut off, and glanced over her shoulder. At their desks and peering around cubicles watching her seemed to be every officer of Scotland Yard.

"Next time if you're trying to avoid attention I would suggest not slamming the door. Now where is that ballistics report?"

"It hasn't come in yet," Sally snapped, blood rushing to her face with embarrassment. She hated how angry and immature Sherlock and his brother made her. Really, keep this up and even _she_ would start to wonder how she had ever managed to become a sergeant! She breathed in deeply and tried to calm herself down. "Do you know who attacked Sherlock yet? Have your _people_ tailing the Canadian found anything?"

"There is no need to speak as though I'm some sort of warlord, sergeant," Holmes said with a touch of annoyed weariness in his voice. "I hardly advocate violence. But to answer your question, I have narrowed the list to three possibilities. There is something missing, though... When you found Sherlock, did he-?"

He was cut off by the phone in his hand buzzing. Quickly he answered it.

"Hello?" the mask of indifference slipped slightly, but it soon came back. "What happened?"

Sally watched in silence. He stood perfectly still, somehow even stiller than he had been all night. His eyes were unfocused. Sally's heart rate increased as her mind jumped to the only conclusion it could. Something had happened to Sherlock.

"I see. Thank you, John."

Mycroft slowly returned the phone to his pocket. Sally stared at him, trying to deduce what that phone call had meant. Her stomach knotted into a ball of ice as she saw a single tear run down his cheek. She tried to create a new meaning for that tear, but she knew what it meant. She knew.

Sally's knees buckled and she grabbed at the desk. She had never expected to feel sad over the death of Sherlock Holmes. Never. She expected relief, if anything! He was always annoying her, always mocking her... she could never have expected this heart-wrenching ache or the guilt! Oh, the guilt! It was almost more than she could bear.

"Is he-" Sally started, but couldn't bring herself to finish.

"Dead," Mycroft responded, and his voice was dead.

Sally sank into a chair. "Sherlock is dead?" she whispered. "I can't- how- I thought that the surgery-"

"The doctors were so concerned about the bullet that they neglected to do a full examination of his knife wound. The blade was poisoned. They didn't discover it until it was too late."

A tear leaked from Sally's eye, but she didn't feel strong enough to wipe it away. "I should have been nicer. I didn't really think he was a psychopath – he just made me feel so stupid." Sally put her head in her trembling hands. "And I was the last person he ever saw! And all he said was "freak". Why did I insist on calling him that?" Sally knew that she was on the edge of losing it, and she battled for control of her eyes.

"Freak?" Mycroft repeated.


	7. The Case is Solved

"He said freak?"

Sally looked at Mycroft's intense stare and nodded glumly. "Serves me right, after-"

"Sergeant Donavon, if you had mentioned this before, then the case would have been solved four hours ago," Mycroft snapped, snatching up his umbrella. He whipped his mobile phone from his pocket. "Convent Garden, level two mauve. Pierre Lafreak. Any force necessary."

Sally stared at Mycroft, not sure what was happening. Had his brother's death made him snap? "What am I missing?" she asked, instead of the "Should I call a psychiatrist?" that she wanted to ask.

"Only everything, Donavon," Holmes replied coolly. "And I don't have time to explain. But I will tell you this:"

Sally straightened in her chair as Holmes turned away and skewered her with his gaze.

"Sherlock is not dead. In fact, it is very plausible that he will regain consciousness by the end of the day. I only told you that he was dead so that I could determine your true feelings for my brother. Good-day."

And with that, Holmes left the office. Sally sat in shocked stillness. Sherlock was alive? He was alive! Instantly, she felt elated and furious. Elated because Sherlock wasn't dead, and furious because Sherlock was going to be back. She was going to have to deal with him still. He would annoy her to the ends of the earth! Plus she had been tricked.

Sally didn't have much time to deal with the chaos of conflicting emotions. Within seconds of Holmes's departure, the chief superintendant burst into the office.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well what, sir?"

"What did he say? Are we doing a satisfactory job?"

Sally stared blankly at the chief superintendant. "I don't understand, sir. What does Mycroft Holmes matter?"

"What does he matter? Are you daft, Donavon?" he barked at her, looking sickened. "He's only our boss now, isn't he?"

Sally felt the blood drain from her face.

**. . .**

**I know, short chapter! But I just want to think everybody who reviewed on the last chapter. I guess threatening to kill somebody off is how you get reviews around here... he he. And to those who I told that I couldn't say that Sherlock was alive, I didn't exactly lie. I just sorta manipulated the truth. Please don't hate me. Next and final chapter is to be posted on Nov 25.**

**Oh, and cookies to everyone who gets the Doctor Who reference in this chappy!**


	8. Conclusion

It had been two weeks since Sergeant Sally Donavon had received the Call. In that time, a brunette Canadian had turned herself in to Scotland Yard, admitting to be an international cat-stealing jewel thief. At her room at the Waldorf hotel – room 406 – they found several million pounds worth of jewels, and five cats.

There was also another body found in the alley where she had discovered Sherlock. A man, mid-forties, with a knife wound across his chest and a bullet hole in his head. Officially, the man was never identified, but Sally was suspicious that he was one Pierre Lafreak. She never told anyone her suspicions, though.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had returned to duty. Sally happily welcomed him back, looking forward to the relaxing no-longer-in-control days ahead. Honestly, being is charge was overrated. Or at least, it was when people you hated (who you actually didn't hate) got shot.

Sherlock Holmes had regained consciousness. Sally heard about it. In fact, his road to recovery was what brought her to St. Bart's hospital, a cheap bunch of flowers in hand. Sally had debated with herself for a long time before she had convinced herself to see him. Maybe it was a part of her that wanted to be sure that he would still be a genius. She couldn't imagine how horrible it would be for her to suddenly take a dip in her IQ, and she didn't even wish it on Sherlock. Even though she sort of hated him, she had come to realise that he could be worse. A lot worse.

Sherlock was lying in his bed, his head swathed in white bandages. His pale grey eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and there was a fierce scowl on his face. Sally was glad that he was alone in the room. She knocked on the doorframe, and his gaze snapped to her. His gaze narrowed on her, and she knew he was picking apart every detail of her image.

"Flowers, Sally?" he demanded. "What are you bringing me- Oh."

Sally set the flowers on a nightstand, not bothering to try and figure out why he suddenly looked very pouty. "Hello, freak."

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. "This is his fault, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mycroft took over the case, didn't he?"

Sally didn't see any point in denying it. "Yeah. He did. He solved it, actually. And you know what? He's a bigger freak than you are."

Sherlock sat straighter, winced, and glared furiously at Sally. "He is not!"

"Why- never mind." Sally shook her head and sat down on the edge of the bed, if only to enjoy the uncomfortable look on Sherlock's face. "You're both freaks, how's that?"

Sherlock didn't look mollified. "He is not smarter than I am."

"How's your head?"

"They shaved it," Sherlock whined, leaning back on his pillows and his scowl deepening. "They shaved my head! Why did they do that? They didn't need to. I bet that was Mycroft, too. So did he tell you to come annoy me or were you just rude to him before you realised that he could have you fired in a heartbeat?"

"What-"

"Sally, you wouldn't be here unless for the sake of your career. Obviously you're afraid that my brother will fire you for one reason or another so now what is it? Did he tell you to come?"

Sally shook her head. "I was actually a little concerned for you, freak," she muttered.

Sherlock obviously didn't believe her. "So you were rude to him, and you're afraid that he'll take a personal vendetta against you. That's right, isn't it?"

Sally shrugged. "Maybe a little."

Sherlock studied her for a moment. "Did you make him tea?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sally grouched.

"The state of your career could rest on it, sergeant. Did you make him tea?"

Sally nodded.

"Did you spit in it?"

Sally hesitated. "Once. Or twice... or more."

Sherlock grinned, but the smile was quickly gone. "And did you make him another cup?"

"Yes."

"What did he say about it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing!" Sally exclaimed, rolling her eyes. She couldn't believe she had wasted four pounds on a bunch of flowers for this freak. "What does that matter?"

"Oh, it does, Sally," Sherlock smiled in a smug way. "He's not going to fire you."

"How could you know that?"

"He didn't say anything about the tea."

Sherlock settled back and nodded once.

Sally hated him. "What's that about?"

"What's what about?"

"What does the tea matter and what was that nod about?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. The tea means that Mycroft isn't going to fire you. I nodded because I'm certain."

"But how?"

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering manner. "Sally, my brother may be a lot of things, but if there is one thing that I am absolutely certain of, it is that Mycroft Holmes does not fire people who make him a decent cup of tea. Especially after they try to sabotage it. It's one of his idiosyncrasies."

"I don't know why I came here," Sally muttered, standing up. "You're alive, and now you're just going to keep bothering me and it's never going to change! Good-day, freak."

She turned around, glaring over her shoulder, and walked right into Mycroft Holmes. She gasped in sharply, blood draining from her face. Her throat went dry and she tried to mumble an apology, but the words kept getting stuck in her throat. Mycroft Holmes, her boss apparently, rolled his eyes and stepped to one side.

"It is perfectly all right, sergeant. Obviously you didn't see me. I see you've brought flowers for my brother."

"I don't want them," the freak replied harshly. "Did you make those doctors shave my head?"

Freak the elder rolled his eyes again, looking very annoyed. "Sherlock, you had a bullet in your head, they had to shave it in order to operate on you. You know that. Stop trying to make everything my fault."

Sally knew that she should leave, but there was something terribly fascinating about seeing the two freaks in the same room. Given Sherlock's glare and the elder Holmes's annoyed return glare, they didn't get along with each other any better than they did with her. And that was something that Sally just couldn't tear her gaze away from.

"Everything is your fault," Sherlock pouted. "And you've solved my case, too, without asking my permission."

"The man wanted to kill you. But let's not dwell on that, Sherlock." Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out a fork. _The_ fork, the one that Dr Watson had brought to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "What did John give you that for?"

"He gathered everything that he thought might be relevant to the case." Holmes set the fork down the stand beside Sally's flowers. "Really, Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you not to break into Downing Street?"

"It would have worked."

"I know it would have. But after the incident with the slith-" Mycroft broke off suddenly and shrugged. "Well, we can discuss that later, can't we?"

Sally's eyebrows knitted together. A fork and Downing Street? Shaking her head, she left the hospital room.

She was still convinced that, despite the fact Mycroft Holmes was her boss, he was also an international terrorist leader, and that his little brother was his second in command. Obviously this bickering between them was to cover up that fact, or something like that. It didn't matter, because now that Sally had convinced herself of the truth, there was nothing that was going to stop her from taking down the freaks, whatever means necessary. One of these days, she would find the clues she was looking for.

A smile broke across Sally's face. Then she'd be famous and always in control. Best of all, she would no longer have to deal with freaks.

#

**END**

**Thank you all for taking this journey with me! I hope that you all had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. Ten points to everyone who can find the Doctor Who reference in this chapter!**


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